


Epoximise

by NuclearNik



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23804158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearNik/pseuds/NuclearNik
Summary: Regulus can't remember the moment his heart became stuck on Lily Evans, can’t remember exactly when she permanently settled inside his chest, sinking into flesh and bone to change the very matter of his being.
Relationships: Regulus Black/Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 44
Collections: Charms: 2020 Round Two





	Epoximise

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [TheSlytherinCabal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSlytherinCabal/pseuds/TheSlytherinCabal) in the [DBQ2020Round2](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DBQ2020Round2) collection. 



> Written for Death By Quill 2020 Round 2. The theme for this round of the competition was Charms and my chosen pairing was Regulus/Lily. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta, Maloreiy, for their time and help!

Regulus can't remember the moment his heart became stuck on Lily Evans, can’t remember exactly when she permanently settled inside his chest, sinking into flesh and bone to change the very matter of his being.

It hadn't been a special occasion. There was no single event that had endeared her to him. It was a long line of little things, subtle things; like the way sunlight made her hair shine like a copper coin, like the sound of her laugh—bright and happy and clear.

He remembered the very first time he saw her, though, that first evening at Hogwarts. She'd stood out in the crowd when he'd been a brand new first-year, sitting nervously on the stool and praying he got put into Slytherin.

The memory of the livid, flushed face of his mother when his parents had found out their precious firstborn was a bloody Gryffindor stuck firmly in Regulus' brain, even at the tender age of eleven, and he'd begged the hat to _listen to him, please._

When the stuffy old thing declared him sorted into his rightful house, a redhead sitting at the Gryffindor table with bright green eyes clapped politely. There'd been true delight on her face, as if the wonder of magic and all it could do were still a new concept. 

He'd vowed right then to remember this feeling—this power that he held inside of him as a wizard—and to not forget it no matter how old he got.

Magic was a gift, and he could tell that Gryffindor girl knew it too.

She never lost that look in her eyes, that excitement of wielding magic. He saw it every time she performed a spell, and with every charm and every potion. It delighted him the same way every time. 

It was wrong, though, unnatural, this yearning he carried like an eternally lit torch for a… _Mudblood_. 

Such a dirty word, one he’d been taught was supposed to leave a sour residue in his mouth. That was just how things were, and he'd had no reason to question it for most of his life.

Until her.

_Mudbloods are trying to steal our magic._

It had been repeated many times over until it became a universal truth, until Regulus had known it better than his own name.

_Magic belongs to the pure._

Even when he finally acknowledged that he truly cared for that redheaded witch, those intrusive thoughts still slithered through his mind like parasites.

In his memory, his mother repeated the phrases like epithets, shouting them at his older brother during one of their fights that had sent Regulus up to the attic just to get away from the screaming, to get away from the vilification of a girl he… _cared_ about. 

His mother had been wrong, he thinks, remembering.

Because he has never seen anything _purer_ than Lily Evans in the warm light of afternoon, head thrown back on a lilting laugh as a friend places a crown of woven flowers on her head.

* * *

In his third year of schooling, Regulus was significantly lacking in his understanding of Charms. It seemed such a simple subject, and his struggles with it—the exact right movements, the perfectly enunciated words—annoyed him to no end.

Frustration thrummed through him as he sat at a table in the far corner of the library, three books open before him and a piece of parchment two feet long trailing to the floor as he scribbled notes only to scratch them out again.

“Do you want some help?”

The sweetest voice floated to him, bringing his head up with a jerk to search for the source. There, a few chairs down stood a pretty witch with a kind smile and a stack of books in her hands.

The very same witch he’d seen that first day—and many days since. She was a couple of years ahead of him, and they didn’t have many classes together, but he’d never forgotten her face. All of the little interactions they’d had were quite vivid in his mind. 

There was something about Lily Evans. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was drawn to her like nothing else. Every once in a while, he even dreamt of her. Usually, they sat in front of a burning hearth and he held her close, her head resting on his chest. And though he knew they were only dreams—little more than hallucinations of the brain—each time he woke, he felt the phantom warmth of a fire.

But this wasn’t a dream.

She was standing right in front of him, and he’d been sitting there staring at her like a moron while she patiently waited for him to answer whatever question she’d just put forth. 

The look on his face must have given him away because the corner of her mouth turned up and she repeated herself.

“Charms, right? I struggled with it a bit also. Latin is hard. I can teach you a trick that makes it easier, if you’d like.”

The force of her lovely green eyes focusing entirely on him rendered him nearly speechless, and he barely managed a mumbled affirmation. She pulled a chair up beside him, leaning forward to grab a blank piece of parchment and write down whatever trick she knew.

He tried to stay focused, truly he did, but the pull of her next to him was too strong, and he couldn’t help himself from inching just a tick to the side to breathe in the scent of her hair. When she pointed at her notes and glanced his way, he hummed and nodded his head as if he’d heard every word, as if he hadn’t been completely entranced by everything that made her who she was.

When he’d finally come to and asked her to repeat herself, he learned a new way to puzzle out Charms, and he passed the class with ease—all thanks to _her_.

It confused him, this longing, this obsession with a girl he’d been taught he was better than. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he packed it up tightly in a box and kicked it to the most shadowed corner of his mind.

* * *

Keeping his head down, Regulus hurried down the dark corridor, ears keenly attuned to any hint of sound. Friday night had turned to very early Saturday morning, and he was out of his dorm and at risk of being caught.

Being up at this hour was nothing new; he hadn’t slept much lately, mind racing with a thousand loose ends. He hated the unknown—despised it, actually—but each day only brought more questions and never any answers. 

Something was building; he could feel it creeping slowly but steadily like the King Tide, rising exceptionally high until it engulfed everything in its path. 

He’d heard the rumblings among his housemates, the rumour that the war was coming to a boil. Whispers of Voldemort’s increasing power had made their way to Hogwarts, and Regulus was cautiously intrigued by it all.

To his family, his taking the Mark was a forgone conclusion. He was a Black; of course, he would stand behind the wizard touting traditional values. The kind of values his parents, in particular, cared more about than anything else—even their own children. 

The decision hadn’t been made yet, though. He was determined that when it was, _he_ made it. No one else.

And when some seventh-year wanker had tried to pressure him earlier, telling him there was no choice, telling him that if the Dark Lord wanted you, that was it, he'd lashed out with violence and ended up with a few bumps and bruises. The pressure building inside him needed a release. He snuck out of the castle with his broom, heading towards the Forbidden Forest. Zipping around in the dark as the cool air ruffled his hair calmed the chaos inside. When he was dripping with sweat and heard his heart pounding in his ears, then he found some peace. 

He'd flown to exhaustion, his mind finally free of clanging and cluttered thoughts, and he’d nearly made it back to his dorm; the chilled corridors had been empty of professors or prefects thus far.

But at the sound of a shoe scuffing against stone, he froze, no time to think before a figure appeared around the corner. All he could do was cross his fingers and hope it was someone from his own house that might go easy on him.

Instead, Lily Evans rounded the corner, the Head badge pinned just above her heart shining in the low light of the torches lining the wall. Just the sight of her had his own heart racing, but not from the fear of being reprimanded.

No, the blood rushing through his veins so quickly he could _feel_ it was for an entirely different reason.

“Hey! You there. Stop.” She hurried forward, getting close enough to make out his identity in the dim corridor. “Regulus?”

She’d remembered his name. They’d interacted over the years—of course, they had—but he’d long since convinced himself that she just didn’t remember him, and _that_ was why they weren’t together. _That_ was why James Potter now held her attention. _That_ was why when Regulus gazed at Lily from across the dining hall, the wonder in her eyes was gone, replaced by disgusting affection directed at the arrogant, smarmy git sat beside her. 

It was better this way, he told himself. 

But here she was before him, calling him by name, igniting the deeply buried ache behind his breastbone and bringing up all the memories of what he wished they’d had together. 

She was too smart for him. Too pretty. Too kind. It was laughable that only years earlier, he’d thought of her as beneath him.

He watched her from afar for ages, years, but when he’d finally worked up the pluck to approach her, it was too late, and she belonged to someone else.

Standing before him now in a drafty corridor, she was small, even more delicate than he remembered. She barely came to his chest now that he’d grown into his gangly body, and she peered up at him as a wrinkle formed between her brows and pushed up on her toes, hand reaching towards his face.

He knew what she’d spotted, and he didn’t much want to speak about it, because admitting that the bruise on his face was from a stupid fight he'd got into was tantamount to admitting he'd broken school rules. So he jerked his head away, letting his long fringe fall over his face like a curtain, blocking her view.

Lily Evans was nothing if not determined, that much he knew well from so much time spent observing her. So he wasn’t surprised when she refused to back down, her small hand reaching up to cup his chin and turn his face to her.

“You're bleeding. What happened?”

The cut must have reopened; he could taste the copper on his tongue as he tightened his jaw and pointedly looked away.

With an adorable huff, she brandished her wand at him and quietly spoke an incantation, siphoning away the blood.

His gaze bounced back to hers as he mumbled, “Thanks.” Her lips parted, probably to press him further, but her eyes caught on his left shoulder.

“Oh, you’ve torn your sleeve.” He pulled away, wanting to end the torture of being so close to her yet not allowed to touch. Her soft voice stopped him. 

“Let me fix it. Please?” 

He couldn’t refuse when she asked so sweetly.

_“Epoximise.”_

He didn’t recognize the charm and was fascinated when the broken threads of his robes bonded together. Before he left and ended the moment that could very well be his final interaction with her, he wanted more time. Just a little bit more.

“Will you teach me that?”

So she did, guiding his wand movements and clearly enunciating the incantation. As she chanted, he thought he could feel the broken threads of his soul welding to hers as surely as the fabric of his robes knit together. Idly, he wondered if it would be permanent. All he knew was that in that moment he didn't care, and he never wanted to leave that dreary corridor.

* * *

When school ended, he was inducted into the ranks of the Death Eaters, Voldemort’s most trusted followers. With no ties to anyone, he made an excellent soldier, and his thoughts only ever drifted very occasionally to the witch he’d never had, the very target of the cause he’d pledged himself to. She'd made her choice, and he needed to let her go.

He had a _job_ , responsibility. There was finally a purpose in his life, and it was a high, a rush he thought he’d never come down from. It felt _right_.

That assertion had been wrong.

The picture of the shiny future he’d imagined when he joined the cause began to dull, each day dimming the bright light of the Dark Lord's grand plan until Regulus wasn’t even sure what the cause was anymore. It became clear that it was more about mindless terror and control, and less about power. By the time summer had passed, he was questioning his allegiance to the mad wizard. 

When he found himself in front of the Potter cottage in Godric's Hollow one night near the end of the year, he wasn't sure why he'd even come. All he'd wanted was to make sure Lily was all right. The war was escalating each day and his tasks grew increasingly onerous. He just... He needed to see her, confirm for himself that she was safe and whole.

He'd been expecting to see her, even bracing himself for the idea that he might catch her kissing that idiot Potter or laughing at something stupid he said.

Instead, when she crossed in front of the window, what he saw made his stomach drop.

_Surely not._

She was there and gone, disappearing from view.

Breathing through his nose in an attempt to keep himself from being sick all over the grass, he kept his gaze fixed on their home. She was never his, he knew that. But knowing didn't make it any easier to swallow.

He must have waited ten minutes, but finally, she reappeared. 

There was no mistaking the change in her profile. It was minor, but she looked different, her once flat belly rounded with the unmistakable figure of pregnancy, standing out against the soft light behind her.

The visual of the moment hit him then: her inside, warm and happy, with a growing family.

And him outside, nose pressed to the glass of her cosy little life as what-ifs ran through his head. What if he had been braver? What if he’d been bold enough to tell her how he felt, to tell her that she was the sun and his days rose and set with her alone?

But he wasn’t brave. He was a coward, a nervous child too scared to lay his heart out for anyone to flay.

He'd lost his chance.

This was it; he knew it was. There were no more chances, no do-overs.

She’d chosen someone else, and he'd known that, but to see it so vividly before him made the reality really sink in. As he stood there in the street gripping his wand, knuckles white from the pressure, the inside of his left forearm tingled, swiftly heating to a burn.

It was a summons, one he couldn’t ignore despite the agony twisting his heart with painful finality. 

Staggering to the side, he Apparated away with a _crack_. 

* * *

The final blow to Regulus’ already fragile loyalty came just a few weeks later over the shaking body of the only being to ever truly care for him without condition. He had failed Kreacher by trusting the Dark Lord, and it was a mistake that would haunt him well into the afterlife, he was sure.

Kreacher was suffering lingering effects from whatever poisoned potion he’d been forced to drink, and Regulus was incensed at the treatment of his elf. As he stood there in his family home trying to soothe the agitated elf, a wave of loneliness hit him. He was alone. His parents never truly cared, they just wanted to use their children for political and social gain, and though Regulus had known that for ages, the realisation that all he had was this one elf felt like slamming headfirst into a brick wall.

When he'd calmed his rage over Kreacher's mistreatment, the little elf shared information that confirmed what Regulus already knew to be true but hadn't wanted to admit.

Voldemort wanted the ultimate victory: victory over death. He’d split his soul for a chance at immortality, and suddenly, the cord tying Regulus to that monster violently snapped, and he made his plans.

There was no scenario in which he came out of this alive; one didn’t simply defect from the ranks of Death Eaters. If he was going to go, he would deprive his former master of the thing he wanted most.

The cave smelled like mildew and death, dread crawling over Regulus' skin the very second Kreacher snapped them there. Creatures no one wanted to see lurked in the murky waters, and unsettling noises echoed around the cave, never letting him forget their presence.

He was scared. Of course, he was. He didn't want to die. But as he stood there preparing to drink whatever cursed potion Voldemort had poured into the stone basin, he had nothing to lose. He'd lost the girl he loved that had never been his in the first place, and he'd lost his family. Gone was any connection to the brother who he'd loved so dearly as a child; Sirius surely thought the worst of him. He had to. His brother was flawed, but down to his soul, he was a person that stood for what he believed was right and good, and the things Regulus had stood for were neither right nor good. 

Everything worth living for had been stripped from his life, and the things he'd done as a Death Eater had tainted his soul beyond redemption. 

"Master?"

Shaking himself from his heartbreaking thoughts, Regulus looked down at Kreacher. "Right. We should, uh, do this." Gnarled fingers reached towards him, holding up a shell to be used to siphon the liquid from the basin. It would hurt; Kreacher's pain when he'd been forced to drink it was viscerally burned in Regulus' head.

He was scared, but he was ready. He would do this. The look on Voldemort's face as he realised his precious Horcrux had been destroyed would be a sight to see, and though Regulus wouldn't be around to catch it, he would know in his soul—wherever he ended up in the afterlife—that he'd done the right thing.

The just thing.

In his final moments in that dark, damp cave surrounded by water, writhing on the ground in agony and prepared for imminent death, Regulus thinks about his life. He thinks about Sirius, his brother's mischievous smile floating through the swirling contents of his mind. 

He wishes he’d been braver, stronger, better. He wishes he’d clung tighter to the voice in his head that sounded like an angel he once knew who pointed him in the right direction, in the direction of the light.

He wishes he’d affixed himself to the right side from the beginning, used that charm his angel had taught him not long ago in a drafty dungeon hallway to stick to the righteous road. 

_Epoximise. Expoximise. Expoximise._

The incantation repeats through his head steady as a drumbeat as his vision grows fuzzy at the edges, and it is the only thing he can focus on, clinging to it like a lifeline.

_Epoximise. Expoximise. Expoximise._

As the clutching hands of death drag him under, a single image plays behind his eyelids. 

Copper hair, bright eyes, and pale, delicate fingers reaching towards him.


End file.
